


In The Dark

by trilliath



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Desperation, M/M, Rough Sex, and stuff, angry papa stilinski, pistol whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-22
Updated: 2013-02-22
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:55:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trilliath/pseuds/trilliath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Sheriff has been in the dark about Stiles and Derek for months. But when Derek doesn't leave fast enough and the Sheriff gets home early one night, he finds out just how much advantage has been taken of his absence.</p><p>And he has a gun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In The Dark

**Author's Note:**

> Partially based on [this post on tumblr](http://trilliath.tumblr.com/post/42075734621/helenish-jerakeenc-devildoll-teen-wolf)  
> Also see the fic [here on my tumblr](http://trilliath.tumblr.com/post/42144921283/in-the-dark-partially-based-on-this-post-on)

Over the past few months they've discovered that there's nothing like the sensation of surviving a life-or-death fight to drive them at each other in a frenzy. He tries, he _tries_ to just take Stiles home, to let him get out of the car alone and get some rest, but he can't, and neither can Stiles from the way he grabs Derek's jacket and sprawls awkwardly across the center console to press his still-shaking body to Derek's. To drive his mouth over his roughly, like all his self-control has been used up not doing it while they were still in danger of dying in a horrible car crash.

He drags Stiles onto him, no matter how awkward it is, or how hard Stiles's head cracks against the window as he falls, or the way his knee digs in to the still-healing stab-wound below Derek's ribs. Nothing matters but getting his mouth on him, on his skin, tugging his over-shirt aside so hard buttons pop. Stiles pulls at him, trying to get closer even though they're already pressed together. Like he needs more, he needs to be skin-to-skin. So does Derek.

Stiles fumbles for the door handle, pushing it open and half-tumbling to the asphalt. There's no room in the car and they both _need_ this. He follows, spreading long legs on either side of Stiles's sprawled form as he exits the car. Reaching down he wraps hands around Stiles's offered throat to help drag him upright so that he can cover his mouth, drag his stubble across his skin as he pulls them away from the car and along towards the house. He thinks he shuts the door. He's not sure.

It takes moments for them to fumble their way into the house. Moments that are still too long. He pulls at the flannel Stiles is wearing till the remaining buttons give and it slides from his body, leaving it where it falls. Stiles's hands are insistent too, but disorganized. He gets Derek's belt undone, and, unnecessarily, half the buttons of his shirt. Then he gives up and settles for toeing off his shoes while stumbling and clinging to Derek's hair till they make it to the top of the stairs and into his bedroom.

There Stiles's hands slip into the arms of his coat, shoving it down his body and tossing it somewhere behind them. They don't stop, they just skip up under his shirt, pushing it up till Derek breaks the kiss long enough to grab the back of it and haul it over his head in a rough yank. 

"My Dad's gone for like five more hours," Stiles gasps out as his fingers grip at the muscles of Derek's waist like it's the only think keeping him standing. Derek groans and bites on the taut muscle in his neck at those words. His fingers dig into the thin tee-shirt Stiles is wearing, dragging it down until the tension is too much, till his claws come out just enough to puncture through the cotton and it tears, leaving ribbons of fabric behind as he scrapes his way down Stiles's chest, a gasping moaning sound vibrating in his throat even as Derek breaks his skin and his body shudders. 

The rest of the torn shirt is subsequently discarded, then their hands are fighting to reach the clasp of his jeans and yank the denim down over his hips, leaving him bare. It's but the work of a moment for Derek to finish what Stiles had started with his own pants, kicking his shoes off and leaving the black denim in a pool on top of them.

He pushes, nudges till Stiles falls back onto the bed, all bare skin and hot red flushing skin at his throat and groin and wherever Derek's fingers had left their mark. He's already fumbling for the drawer next to his bed where he keeps the lube and throws it at Derek without even looking, knowing he’ll catch it while he finds and then tears open a condom. Derek squeezes some lube onto his dick, then groans as Stiles's impatient fingers spread the latex over him, smoothing the liquid under the thin layer in tantalizing strokes. 

He puts a hand to Stiles's collar-bone, pinning him back to the bed so that he can nudge his thighs wide with his own and smear lubricant over his skin in turn. It's sloppy, and the coverage is uneven but neither of them cares as he angles the head of his cock down against Stiles's tight opening and pushes, slowly and steadily as the teen huffs ragged shallow breaths and pulses around him. 

It still feels absolutely surreal to Derek, every single time. And every time, when he pushes, just that last bit and sinks home inside him, the way Stiles's body just _shudders_ , the way his long fingers just clutch and pull at his skin or his clothes or his sheets or whatever happens to be handy.

It's just too much. Every time it's just too much for him to handle. The things he _wants_ , the things he's already doing. And then, just when he thinks he should stop, should pull back before he loses control, he hears Stiles moan like its his dying wish, "oh _yes_ "

And then he can't stop. Too caught up in the desperation of survival, of need and want. His teeth find sensitive little nooks on Stiles's neck. His fingers dig in, pinning his thighs and elbows and wrists and any part of him down so hard he leaves bruises. He kisses him so roughly, bites his lip and tugs until the bright tang of human blood in his mouth reminds him that this one is breakable enough to need to be protected. 

And he should feel awful at the sight of Stiles, sprawled out in his bed, fresh scratches raised in bloody red lines, skin reddening where it will purple. But they're _his_ bruises. Not ones made by whatever monster or hunter of the week decided to threaten his pack and the fragile human who ran with them. 

Eyes wide and pupils blown and mouth _his mouth_ parted in a perfect bow of wanton need as Derek drives him, drags him up over the edge till they're both gasping for breath. Till they're both crying out in rough, guttural moans and keens and spilling themselves over and into each other, clutching harder than they should, leaving marks. 

He _does_ feel awful. But Stiles just looks at him, with this sense of awe and satisfaction and…  
And something Derek knows, because it is reflected within his own chest, but it is something he cannot name aloud or even in the privacy of his own mind.

He curls over him, boxing his fragile human body in as their breaths slow and heart rates return to normal. He holds him, gazes into those amber pools till his lids cover them for longer and longer moments in between blinks, then eventually weigh down and don't open again. Till his breathing is steady and Derek can slip from him without waking him. He pulls a sheet over Stiles and then disposes of the wrappers before sitting at his desk chair and gazes at him, trying to settle his mind. 

He stays, far longer than he should have, just watching Stiles sleep. As always, Stiles doesn't sleep like a normal human being. He twists in his sleep occasionally till he ends up sprawled, one leg hanging out to the side, the sheets down around his waist over half his body. His lips are parted, curling in slow shapes dictated by his dreams.

He's so immersed in it that he misses it, misses the sounds that should have been his cues to flee. He misses it right up until the front door of the house shuts. The sound of feet is hard on the stairs as he lurches out of the chair, yanking his pants on. There's no time for anything else so he dives for the window, slams it open, abandoning his shoes and coat wherever they'd ended up as he jumps out onto the roof and runs down to drop onto the lawn just as the door to Stiles's room swings open, banging against the wall.

He sees the light flare on and hears the strangled sound the Sheriff makes, and the sound of Stiles waking abruptly and crying out "Jeez, Dad! A little privacy?!"

But the Sheriff ignores him, striding to the window and looking down, catching sight of Derek on the grass below even as he turns and runs around the house, making for the Camaro out front. But the Sheriff is fast and only has a corner and a flight of stairs to traverse. The door bangs open behind him, and a hard voice, one filled with authority says, "Stop right there." 

It's not the authority though, which causes him to stop. It's the sharp metallic click of a pistol slide being yanked back and a round chambered. When he turns the Sheriff has his service pistol drawn. Drawn on him. A bullet doesn’t worry him, but having the Sheriff see him take a bullet like it was nothing or risk him seeing an instinctual transformation… or having to explain why he'd discharged his weapon. Neither option would go well for the Sheriff. And Stiles's father... 

"Dad, stop," Stiles says, running up hard on his heels, clad only in his boxers and the over-shirt he had discarded on the stairs when they'd made their way up to Stiles's room, desperate for each other's skin. 

“Dad, it wasn’t…," he blurts, scrambling for words. "Derek, he didn’t… he doesn’t-,”

"Son," he interrupts, voice gentle. "Let me do my job. You're not thinking clearly right now."

"No - yes I am. I'm fine," he insists.

Which is clearly not the case. Even in the dim light spilling from the doorway he can see the split lip and redness of the scratches and the dusky marks of bruises on his neck, his face. And there are more that can't be seen. They all know it.

"Stiles, go back inside. Now," the Sheriff orders quietly, gently, like he doesn't want to add to the abuses Stiles has suffered, moving closer to Derek, weapon still trained on his chest. Though his voice is gentle, there's a wild, furious light in his eyes. One that Derek knows well.

"No way, Dad this is insane," Stiles says, tugging the shirt closed across his chest as he makes for the porch steps, barefoot.

Derek looks at him with pleading eyes. "Stiles, just go-,"

The heavy sharp edge of the pistol cracks across his temple. Not something that would really do much to a werewolf, but the effort he has to put into staying calm, into not reacting with lethal force like he had done earlier that day, is enough to send him sprawling with the blow.

"Do not speak to my son," the Sheriff orders. A second blow cracks down on his cheek as Stiles runs forward.

And it feels right, that there should be a bruise to match the one forming on Stiles's cheek, though it will heal long before Stiles's marks fade.

"Dad, no. Dad, please, he didn't-," he pleads, his voice breaks over the words, "It wasn't him," he lies.

"I wish I could believe you, Son," he says, as Stiles scrambles forward to pull on his arm.

The Sheriff turns and grabs Stiles by the fabric on his chest, dragging him back inside the house. There's a metallic click and rattle of handcuffs being tightened around Stiles's wrist, then around something else, presumably something solid. Derek could have run, could have gotten away but…

Stiles had looked so horribly abused, stumbling out into the yard, barefoot and half-naked. So horribly used and wrecked and the worst part of it.  
The _worst_ part is that Derek isn't sorry.  
That he wants more. 

All the gentleness is gone from the Sheriff's demeanor when he returns a moment later, pistol still trained on him.

"Are you insane?" The Sheriff demands, voice cutting over Stiles's muffled protests. "Or do you just _want_ to… doing that to _my_ son. How long-," he begins, but then the words choke off in a harsh breath as he jerks toward him, fist gripping at Derek's hair, hauling him to his knees so that he can strike Derek's face again.

The rage on his face is confirmation that the voice in the back of his head, the one telling him that having Stiles was so wrong… that voice had been right. That the surreal sensation was his warning, that he was long past the point of sanity where Stiles was concerned.

Had that really even been a question?

"Get up," he orders, and Derek pulls himself to his feet, standing with his hands limp at his sides. His lack of resistance seems to confirm the way of things to the Sheriff, an admission of guilt.

"He's _sixteen_ ," the Sheriff hisses, eyes wide and face contorted in anguish and anger and a desperate struggle for control. 

No. There had never been any doubt. 

Derek has nothing to say, he just stands there, exposed to his punishment. The Sheriff's hand shakes, and then he's shoving his pistol back in his holster, snapping it shut and locking it like he needs the extra barrier to keep from pulling the trigger. 

"Sixteen," he grits out, voice breaking on the word as his fist draws back and slams across Derek's cheekbone hard. And again, and again till he falls back into the grass, blood pooling in his mouth. He hardly even flinches as the sheriff's boot strikes his ribs, his thighs. The pressure cut that opens up on his forehead bleeds down his face but he does nothing. Even the pain of the strike that lands on his groin isn't enough to make him fight Stile's dad. He just crumbles, taking each blow as it lands. 

"Dad stop!" Stiles yells, voice hoarse, yanking on whatever he's bound to, trying to free himself.

Derek doesn't fight back. He concentrates on _not_ fighting back. Though his instincts rage at him to throw off his attacker, to rend him with claws and teeth he does nothing. He doesn't so much as raise a hand to Stiles's father. He never will, because he could never do that to Stiles.

And because he deserves this.

The Sheriff hammers another blow into his chest. He grunts with the pain as the well-placed strike hits his solar plexus, then the next the raw red gouge of the wound left on his side from the earlier battle. The scab breaks and blood pours afresh from the wound. He feels at least two of his ribs crack with the next blow that lands. He can't help the way he groans at the pain when they crack audibly. 

In the background he hears Stiles's voice faintly murmur, "Ok, ok, you can do this."  
He hears the rattle of handcuffs being pulled taut, then Stiles taking a deep breath and holding it.

Understanding hits Derek a moment too late. "No don’t-," he shouts hoarsely up at the house into the momentary silence but it's already happening as a strangled painful cry echoes from the house.

The Sheriff's head jerks up at the sound, then Stiles is stumbling out the front door, jumping down the steps precariously as he comes running towards them. He throws himself between them, arm cradled against his chest, bare knees skidding in the grass. 

"Stop," he demands, voice raw with pain and tears. "Stop."

He sees the Sheriff take in the dislocated thumb, the bloody scrapes on his wrist from where he fought to free himself. Derek's blood-streaked face. Sees the reality of the situation that's gone way too far start to sink in suddenly. His face goes slack as he drifts back a couple paces. 

Stiles whirls on Derek, pressing a shaking hand to his bleeding face.  
"Oh my god what is wrong with you? Why didn't you stop him? Why didn't…," he trails off, voice thick with tears as he presses his face into Derek's hair, cradling his head against his bare thighs.

Derek curls into him, he can't help it.

He can't help the shaking either. But Stiles just holds him, just breathes against him until it fades.  
Eventually he pulls himself upright, then slowly climbs to his feet. Ignoring the ache of his broken ribs he reaches down and gently helps Stiles up, carefully avoiding his hand. Derek places a steadying hand against his waist when he wavers.

"So," Stiles says, voice faint, and turns to look at his father, who is just standing there in the grass looking completely wrecked. 

"Derek and I are together," he says, like it's a fact, like it's just that easy. 

His dad nods slowly, gazing at them with hollowed eyes.

"And I think I need to go to the hospital," he adds breathlessly, then promptly passes out in Derek's arms.


End file.
